


The Funeral

by Xenamorph



Category: Wizard101 (Video Game)
Genre: Adoptive Parents - Freeform, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Foster Care, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenamorph/pseuds/Xenamorph
Summary: All good things come to an end, Myles knew this first hand.
Relationships: Malistaire Drake/Sylvia Drake





	The Funeral

Myles doesn't know what to do with his hands. Sylvia (he had just gotten to calling her mom but now that word was buried in the ground just like she was about to be) never minded when he fiddled with a toy or his wand or ring or any sorts of things that he had found on the ground. Sylvia didn't mind a lot of things about him, she always seemed to be understanding and bright and happy. Taking a lot of pictures of him doing small acts of magic in order to slip them into a scrapbook (one that was never going to be finished, Malistaire never took pictures and Myles wasn't about to take pictures of himself just for a dead woman's scrapbook), and praising him for his progress in his studies.

He wasn't thinking about how he was probably going to get shafted off to another family, he knew that Malistaire only adopted him because Sylvia so desired a child and Malistaire was only just coming around to calling him 'kid' and 'son' instead of just Myles. Malistaire (not dad, even though Sylvia was almost-mom, Malistaire had not gotten even close to anything other than Professor) had gotten more and more distant and Myles couldn't blame him. Sylvia had just died, in that pathetic excuse of a hospital that was too synthetic and too bright white for a _Life_ magic professor. The funeral was today and time seemed to be coming all at once and also crawling at a snail's pace.

"Myles, are you ready?" Malistaire's voice echoed in the house for the first time in days. He was in professional robes, all dark colors and silver and just the barest hint of green (Sylvia had chosen those robes for the funeral of her old friend last year, Sylvia had gotten him a matching set but he burned them he burned one of the last gifts she would ever be able to give and there wasn't any scrap cloth for him to pin in a scrapbook). 

"Yes, Professor," The title was almost an insult, an unasked question of 'where was your magic, where was your redistribution of life for her' that had been playing in his mind the entire time (not that he expected Malistaire to be able to answer). Myles was wearing something ill-fitting (most things made here were, never really able to adapt to his slim shoulders and square torso and odd proportions that humans weren't supposed to have), but it was green. It was almost garishly green and bright and lively and he knew he would stick out like a sore thumb. But at least then they'd be whispering about his outfits and not the fact he was the poor poor orphan boy who would be someone else's problem soon.

Malistaire, sadly, didn't give him the reason he wanted. There was no explosion of anger or show of distaste or questions of what the fuck was he wearing, instead there was just a slow sigh and a nod. "Come now, we shouldn't be late."

"Yeah, sure would suck to be late to my own mother's funeral," Myles knew he was being unfair, knew that he was being an asshole for no good reason (other than trauma but he couldn't say that he had lost more than the man, but he could still hide behind that shawl of 'i lost my mother' if he needed to). He wanted to hurt the man, even with knowing how hurt he already was, and he knew that made him a bad person. But still, he spat words out and relished in the slight cringe of Malistaire's expression. _Good, make it easier for him to get ride of me,_ he thought, like it was a forgone conclusion.

"Go out to the garden and pick some hydrangeas, you know they were your mother's favorite," was the only response and Myles could've growled at the lack of real reaction. His slightly heeled boots slam down on the wooden floor, letting Malistaire know that he was doing it but he wasn't doing it for him.

The sight of the hydrangeas (slightly wilted because neither of them wanted to go out to the garden and smell the earth that was always coating Sylvia's hands) almost made him burst into tears. It felt disgustingly weak, that he had let himself get attached to something that was obviously fleeting and never would've lasted (what a joke, that he had let himself get so close and soft). He didn't need scissors, had never needed scissors to destroy things. So he chopped off the heads of a few of the flowers and cradled them in his hands. It smelled sweet like rot and he felt a little nauseous but he still joined Malistaire at the door.

The funeral passed in a blur and before Myles knew it he was staring at a grave. The casket was still in there (something something eternal life what a joke it's _this_ life that matters) and uncovered and they were all expected to put a flower on the grave for some reason. It had never been explained, no one ever found reason to and Sylvia focused on the life part. Still, he grabbed the heads of the hydrangeas and tossed them all into the open grave. The smell of rot was overpowering and he (logically) knew that it was much to soon for it to be Sylvia herself, but Myles still felt sick. 

He barely stumbled back to his seat, falling into it and his hands were trembling. It felt horrible and weak and he clenched his fists into fists and squeezed his eyes shut. Time faded out of his perception, he could've been sitting there for five seconds or five hours and it was all the same to him. His breathing was shaky in his own ears even as he tried to force it to steady out it only got worse.

"Myles, wake up, the funeral's over," Myles' eyes snapped open and Malistaire was slightly crouched in front of him, one hand on his shoulder (pathetically fatherly what did he think they were?). His eyes were sad and wet and Myles had so many things to say that would make him cry and scream at him to get out of his house, but nothing came out but a weak noise. There wasn't any good response to that in Myles opinion, weakness had to be ignored at best or punished at worst, but Malistaire's reaction still confused him. "I know, it's okay. Let's go home."

"Whoo-hoo, last day home before getting shuttled off!" His voice was acerbic and mean (it was better than weak, anything was better than weak) as he got himself to his feet without using the offered hand, "So great of you to give me twelve hours to sleep off the trauma before sending me away." He laughed with no humor and it sounded hysteric even to his own ears. 

There was an unreadable emotion in Malistaire's eyes that might have been regret (regret wasn't always enough, if he was being sent away then he didn't care how much it hurt the other person), but it wasn't clear. Nothing was clear, it hadn't been for a while and it always made Myles frustrated. There was no balance anymore, no eye for an eye that made the world _run_. Just a cold hand (you'd think that he was the one who had died instead of Sylvia with that sort of temperature) on his back and some murmured words and the overpowering scent of grave dirt as they arrived back at the house (not a home, Myles wasn't going to be there for much longer). "You should get to sleep, it's been a stressful day for us all and going without sleep will only make things worse."

Myles scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest and stomped up into the spare bedroom that he had been using. It was barely decorated, just medals and trophies and cool things he had found that Sylvia had help him put into a display. He ran his hand down his hair, yanking at the ends as his leg bounced as he settled down on the bed. He had no idea what to do with his hands, but he wanted to destroy something. But he couldn't, he was too focused on the fact that she was actually gone.

That they would never buy that lizard (get it? they were the Drakes) and he would never see her in the crowd during his graduation and he would never get asked about Wildcat Johnson or be able to ramble on about his interests while she put him to work in her garden with her. His eyes zeroed in on a dead moth on the window sill, and he felt something in him break.

Hours later (time felt fake and flimsy like a horribly crafted holographic cover for a book that he would never read again), Myles sat in the middle of pure destruction. The trophies were broken, melted down by the short bursts that he could summon and molded to the wood and the medals had been ripped off of their cloth chains and bent in half. The wood of the frames were shattered into toothpicks and Myles knew that if he wasn't careful he'd get so many splinters and he would have to deal with them on his own. 

There was nothing for him to do with his hands anymore but destroy, and he packed his bags that night. Whether or not it was coming tomorrow, it was coming and Myles wasn't going to be caught unaware.


End file.
